


Retrograde Motion

by KChasm



Category: Persona 4
Genre: Amnesia, Future Fic, Passing Naoto, ignores spin-off material, short installments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-13 02:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10504440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChasm/pseuds/KChasm
Summary: Yousuke has a bad case of amnesia—and, apparently, a job as a detective's assistant.This could be a bother.





	1. Your Card Is Zero

He opens his eyes.

Closes them again, quick, before the light can get in—but it's too late, of course, and the glare is already there, under his eyelids, which means that if he ever had the chance of getting back to sleep it's _definitely_ gone now. He lets himself lie there a little longer anyway—counts seconds in his head, as slow as possible—and then, when putting it off any longer starts feeling dumb even for him—

He opens his eyes again.

And then _closes_ them _again_ , because—wow. _Wow._ His _head_. What the _hell_ —

It takes some time for him to find the middle ground between not-blind and not-feeling-like-he's-been-hit-in-the-head-with-a-hammer and he's pretty sure he gets the raw end it anyway—his eyes squinched, and the pain a throbbing _thing_ in the back of his skull—but it's enough for him to take in his surroundings, and for now that works. That wide-paned window, that fake wood paneling on the walls, that too-bright _light_ —

He's in a hospital.

He's in a hospital and he has no idea how he got there.

Which is probably a bad sign. What happened? Did he get hit in the head with a box? That's the kind of thing that'd probably happen to him. _Especially_ with all the unpacking going on.

He's all set to find the nurse call button and get some questions answered when he hears it—a breath that isn't his, thin and sharp, suddenly cut. Yousuke turns his head in reflex—

And even as his headache sharpens in protest, there are new questions forming in his mind.

Like, for example—

Who's the guy in the cap?


	2. Blue on Blue

It's the _clothing_ that Yousuke notices first, as weird as that sounds. It's tailored, and he can _tell_ it's tailored—which is also weird, now that Yousuke thinks about it, considering the closest he's ever been to actual tailoring has to do with that one shop on the other side of the river from Junes, and even there all he's ever done is take a passing glance at whatever they've got posed at the window. See, he can't even remember _that_.

But then again, there's no way this jacket Yousuke's seeing _isn't_ tailored. It's just too fancy not to be, if that makes any sense—double-breasted, lapel stiff all the way around the collar—

And then there's that cap—that flat cap. It's the cap that gets Yousuke most of all, because he's pretty sure caps like that went out of style decades before he was ever born.

And yet—and here's the other, other weird thing—it _all goes together_. This isn't an outfit that this guy threw over himself at the last minute on his way out of the house. This guy took the _time_ to carefully match this jacket and this cap and these plaid (plaid?!) pants.

And then Yousuke remembers that there's a guy _in_ those pants and—yeah, okay, checking out this guy's outfit can wait until later, because that expression the guy's wearing—it's a lot more worrying than even plaid could ever be.

Because he's looking down at Yousuke with something caught in a triple-fender-bender between surprise and gladness and _fear_ , and Yousuke doesn't know what he's got to deserve any of that from this guy, because Yousuke doesn't know this guy, not at all.

“Yousuke,” the guy says softly. “No—don't speak. Do you remember what happened?”

That's an easy question to answer. He shakes his head no, careful not to rattle his brain too hard.

“You were struck from behind,” the guy says. “The attackers are in police custody, but you've been unconscious for the past two days. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

What he needs is a _clue_. He moves his mouth, but the words won't come out.

The guy in the suit jacket leans forward. “Yousuke?”

It takes a minute for his tongue to stop sticking, for his throat to clear up enough that talking seems even possible. And then, voice rough from disuse, he whispers—

“Who are you?”

And it must be the wrong thing to say, because—his face.

His  _face_.

 


	3. The Visitor Is a Star

The man's name is Naoto Shirogane, and the doctors and nurses keep half an eye on him even as they're checking Yousuke's eyes and head and whether he can maintain a simple conversation without anything else in his brain coming loose. At first Yousuke thinks they're leery, maybe, like maybe they're waiting for this blue guy to get in the way of their work, make their jobs even harder—

But no, it's a different sort of look. This is more like—they _want_ to look at him. Like they want to impress the fact that this this guy is standing in the middle of this hospital room into their minds but don't want to be so obvious about doing it. The same way people look at celebrities, especially when they don't want anyone to think they think celebrities are anything worth looking at.

(Yousuke doesn't know how he can know this. He doesn't remember ever being within five meters of a celebrity. There are a lot of things he doesn't remember, apparently.)


	4. Blue on Blue II

Naoto Shirogane is a detective. He is apparently a Very Big Deal, which explains why everyone in that hospital room had no idea what to do with him. He is also Yousuke's employer.

Yousuke doesn't remember this.

Yousuke doesn't remember this man, or his expertly tailored suit. He doesn't remember being a detective's assistant. He doesn't remember college, or if he even went.

He doesn't remember anything of high school after he came to Inaba, and around there is when Yousuke starts to panic, so he goes back a bit to not remembering college, which is still terrifying, but at least manageably so.

So what does he remember? He'd moved to Inaba, which had been terrible, but probably not any more terrible than not moving to Inaba would have been. There'd been the usual trouble of breaking in a new location—boxes to unpack, shelves to arrange—and _then_ —

And then—

And _then_ —

And then Yousuke can't remember a thing, and something in his head is starting to pound, so he gives up and goes back—again—to not remembering who Naoto Shirogane is. Because that's safe, or at least feels like it. There must be plenty of people who don't know who Naoto Shirogane is, whether he's a Big Deal or not.

Naoto Shirogane, who's perched beside Yousuke's bed with an unsteady expression and twitching hands. Naoto Shirogane, in plaid blue pants and his tailored blue suit and his flat blue cap.

Well, at least he knows his boss's favorite color.


	5. Gamely Decked

This is the set of clothing brought Yousuke by Naoto, unceremoniously, in a series of baskets and plastic bags:

  * One (1) change of clothing, including:
  * One (1) change of underwear (natch),
  * One (1) set of socks, plaid (plaid?!?!),
  * One (1) pair of shoes that Yousuke can actually see his reflection in (“I had them cleaned,” Naoto coughs, when he catches him looking too long),
  * One (1) pair of trousers with creases up the front of the legs,
  * One (1) dress shirt, white, button-up, collared,
  * One (1) tie, which Yousuke doesn’t know how to tie until he touches it, a fact which makes him have to put down the tie and carefully not think of anything for a little while because freaking out _now_ would just look bad,
  * One (1) waistcoat ( _waistcoat?!?!?!_ ),
  * And one (1) suit jacket, which at this point—sure. Sure.



Why not?

At this point Naoto could hand him a clown nose and it wouldn’t feel any less ridiculous. A _waistcoat_?


	6. Pretender

His parents come to see him. They are old, far older than they should be. His father’s hair is gray, and less; his mother’s skin is wrinkled and loose on her skull like a badly made constume.

They reach out to him, rustle his hair, and Yousuke smiles and Yousuke can see the veins in their arms and Yousuke would like to scream, just a little.

His father asks if he can remember him—if he can remember his mother. Of course, Yousuke answers, and his father smiles, face breaking in crevices. And then it is Yousuke’s turn to ask what has happened, what he ought to know, is everything still great at your Junes—

The Junes is still there, Yousuke’s father says. The smaller businesses weren’t big fans of a superstore doing everything they did only cheaper (I’ll bet, Yousuke thinks), but they found a middle. They all found a middle, eventually. Yousuke was even friends with—that boy, what was his name, the one from the fabrics store—

“Tatsumi,” says Yousuke’s mother.

—yes, and Amagi, who’s still working at the inn. Do you remember Amagi? Amagi Yukiko?

Yousuke smiles and does not remember Amagi Amagi Yukiko. Does not remember friends. Cannot _imagine_ friends, and smiles and wonders how much he lied to his parents over the years that he doesn’t remember and smiles and smiles and smiles.


	7. The Decision to Hang a Man

And then Yousuke is _all better_.

Of course not. He is still missing years off his life, years that may or may not come back someday or maybe never, depending on which complicated article about amnesia Naoto has brought a printout of this time, but he can _walk_ , and he can _function_ , so they tell him to take care and turn him out of the hospital bed and back into the larger world.

They let him change out of the gown, first, at least.

It’s the clothes again that nearly put him back in. Socks are socks and buttons are easy enough to fit through the right holes, but he is halfway through completing the knot of the tie under his chin before he realizes that _he is halfway through completing the knot of the tie under his chin_ and stops.

He didn’t even thinking about it. Didn’t run through his head how weird it was, to put on a tie when he never had to before. Just let himself go lost in his own head, and his fingers did just fine on their own.

Only, they weren’t his fingers. They were _new-Yousuke’s_ fingers.

That’s fine.

That’s _fine_.

He lets them move again. It’s a little harder now that he’s _trying_ to tie a tie, but he still remembers how to do it, and he’s close enough to the end of it that he can figure it out on his own. Carefully, gently, Yousuke’s fingers adjust new-Yousuke’s tie around new-Yousuke’s collar. They fasten new-Yousuke’s vest across new-Yousuke’s shirt, and fit on new-Yousuke’s shoes.

And then Yousuke opens the door and takes step one into new-Yousuke’s life.


	8. Pretender II

Naoto’s car shouldn’t be here. It should be in a museum, or some collector’s garage, or wherever they keep vehicles dating back from when Model Ts were the hottest thing on the market. Either that or it just _looks_ that way, though Yousuke can’t decide whether that would make it less expensive or even more.

He feels Junesier just standing near to it, which is why, when Naoto tells him that _Yousuke_ would drive, normally—

Yeah, he can’t really believe it.

“Of course, given your state...” Naoto trails off, and slips into the driver’s seat himself, which is pretty understandable—Yousuke’s state is “injured.” Yousuke state is, “I didn’t even have a license for a moped, last I checked (except no, that was years ago).” Yousuke’s state—

Naoto turns the key, and the car rumbles to life around him.

Yousuke’s state is “irritated,” because _he’s supposed to be the one driving the car_.

He doesn’t even notice what he’s thinking until they’re out of park, and then it makes him feel real stressed, real quick. It’s new-Yousuke again, and it’s not like he can _mind_ the guy—he helped him get dressed, after all—but he kind of wishes the guy showing up felt less like missing a stair on the way down.

Something of that unease has to show on his face or something, because the next time Naoto checks his rearview, the guy does a double-take. “Are you feeling well?” he asks Yousuke. “I can stop the vehicle for a little while.”

And wait on him, huh? That’s not going to help. Yousuke moves his face in something he hopes looks like a smile and shoots for casual. “Just thinking about stuff,” he says.

“I understand,” says Naoto, probably very politely not calling bull. “You must be unsure of yourself, considering what you know of your job—”

“You mean what I don’t know,” Yousuke interrupts. And then blinks, because _did he wise_ _guy_ _his boss_.

If Naoto’s offended, though, he doesn’t show it. Or maybe he’s just making allowances. “Yes, well—I’ve been told that a return to routine might jog your memory, but feel free to come to me anytime if you have any questions or problems. I’d like to make this readjustment as smooth as possible.”

You’re _making it worse_ , Yousuke thinks, but tries to keep the expression up anyway. “Yeah,” he says, and nods. “Sure.”


	9. Know What You’re Like

“What exactly is it that I do?” Yousuke asks.

Naoto doesn’t look back from the driver’s seat. Does even look into the rearview mirror again—maybe because he didn’t like what he saw the first time. He does respond, though. “‘Do’? What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m your assistant, right?”

“You are.”

“Right. So—what exactly does that mean? I mean, what is it I’m supposed to do?”

There’s a stiff, ear-filling silence. Yousuke wishes he was sitting in front—that he could see Naoto’s face, get an inkling of what’s passing through the guy’s mind, instead of just an eyeful of the back of his head.

“As my personal assistant, your duties vary,” Naoto says, finally. “You maintain records and bookkeeping, as well as take most incoming calls. You also take care of our travel arrangements, in the event that our work takes us a significant distance or away from our usual lodgings for an extended period of time.”

So just usually secretary-like stuff, it sounds like— “Wait—‘ _our_ ’ travel arragements?”

Another pause. This time, when Naoto breaks it, he sounds—different. A lot less matter-of-fact. “Ye-es, of course. You are my personal assistant, after all. It’s not unusual for you to accompany me on my cases—just in case I have need of your assistance.”

So a bit more involved than being a secretary. Huh. “Anything else?” he asks. “Like, I don’t do the cooking or cleaning or anything like that, do I?”

“Ah—no. I have a set of staff dedicated to issues of maintenance—and the preparation of my meals, though I do prepare my own, from time to time.”

So he’s not the only employee? “Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” he says, not following up on that at all. “I don’t really think I know how to cook.”

“I wouldn’t say you’re entirely without experience. That is—you’ve dabbled, from time to time.”

He has? “Sure, but was it any good?”

“I can honestly say I’ve eaten worse.”

“Gee, thanks. You really know how to compliment a guy,” Yousuke says, and then is instantly horrified again because no, he _definitely_ shouldn’t have said that, why does he _keep wiseguying with his boss_ ; this is his _boss_ , not some buddy from school (for all he knows of buddies from school)—

But Naoto just says, “I don’t mind complimenting you—when you deserve it,” and maybe Yousuke’s crazy, maybe Yousuke’s hopeful, but there’s something to the way Naoto says it—like he didn’t mind Yousuke snarking at him, so much. Like maybe he was smiling, just now, even if Yousuke can’t see it. Nothing big—he can’t imagine a toothy beaming sunshine thing, not from this guy. Just a slight curve to the mouth, probably.

Or maybe actually that is overcrazy and overhopeful and Yousuke’s totally blowing it, right now, and this guy’s mentally tallying strikes and trying to think up an excuse to fire him already. That’s possible, too.


	10. Like Rodentia

“We’ve arrived,” says Naoto, and then he says it again, because Yousuke doesn’t answer. Yousuke is still trying to process—among other things—the newly gained fact that Naoto lives in a _mansion_. Oh, sure, the guy uses words like “grounds” and “estate,” but Yousuke knows a mansion when he sees one, even if he hasn’t seen one before. And the building Naoto lives in?

That’s a mansion.

That’s definitely a mansion.

What the heck; even _Sherlock Holmes_ rented.

It’s not any less mansiony from the inside—Naoto leads Yousuke, teetering, in from way-too-big garage, and suddenly it’s marble flooring and wood wainscoting and actual honest-to-god _chandeliers_ and is it possible for a guy to get culture shock without actually leaving the country? Because Yousuke’s getting there. Seriously.

“I understand that the grounds may be difficult to navigate initially,” says Naoto, still not using the word “mansion” for some reason. “Please don’t hesitate to ask me or one of the staff if you have trouble finding one of the rooms.”

“How big _is_ this place?”

“The first floor stands at roughly one thousand square meters, though the total grounds take up significantly more than that—what with the gardens, the staff residences, and a number of small guest houses, for example. Of course, I don’t expect you to regain your familiarity with all of these structures immediately. For now, I believe it would be better to focus your efforts on remembering the layout of the mansion.” There’s a door at the end of the hallway—the same hallway that they’ve been walking all this time, since they left the garage, because rich people can’t just live in apartments like everyone else, apparently—and Naoto opens it and ushers Yousuke through.

In the next room, there’s a statue of a minotaur.

Okay, so it isn’t like there’s _just_ a statue of a minotaur, and that’s it. That would be weird—well, weirder than Yousuke’s life is now, with the amnesia and everything. The room’s wall-to-wall with paintings, too: Some kind of exhibition room, in other words, which makes having a statue of a minotaur almost _normal_. Yousuke follows Naoto through _this_ room, too, and tries to ignore how the minotaur can’t possibly be drilling holes in the back of his neck with its stern yet dignified minotaur gaze.

“A thousand square meters is a lot of space,” Yousuke says. “Maybe we could start with a couple of rooms, first? Or a corner?” Preferably one far away from minotaurs, statue or otherwise.

Something embarrassed seems to pass over Naoto’s face for a moment, but he turns away too quick for Yousuke to get a bead on it. “That...would make sense,” he mutters. “You would probably be best served starting with the east wing of the second floor, then—as that’s most likely where you’ll be spending most of your time. My bedroom is directly across from yours, so it should be easy for you to find me if you have any questions.”

Right.

No, hold on. “My what?” says Yousuke.

Naoto pauses midway opening the door to the next room full of stained glass windows or solid gold sports equipment or whatever else it is rich people think it’s normal to have. “Sorry?” he says.

“You said something about your bedroom?”

“Yes—my bedroom is directly across from your bedroom, so it should be easier to find me.”

Yousuke feels himself nod, except he’s not sure it’s him doing it. “My bedroom,” he echoes.

“Yes,” says Naoto.

“Like a spare bedroom,” says Yousuke. “Except not _my_ bedroom, specifically. Right?”

That embarrassment on Naoto’s face returns, full force, and this time Yousuke can study it as long as he wants. “Ah—that is—I realize, suddenly, that I may have neglected to inform you of certain circumstances regarding your current living conditions that you’d find particularly important, especially considering your loss of memory—”

And that’s how Yousuke finds out he lives _in a mansion_.

_Why is Yousuke’s life actually this weird._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent less time writing this bit than I did considering what strange statuary Naoto's living space might have as a consequence of it going through a number of hands, at least some of which must have been eccentric.
> 
> My priorities are messed all to the up.


	11. Particulate Eyesore

Naoto’s Yousuke’s bedroom is...big.

Okay, so it’s not _big_ big, not four-poster-bed-and-room-to-spare big. Heck, taking it with that kind of expectation in mind, it’s _small_ , even. Only just around the size of his own bedroom, and then a little bit more, if that.

The trick, he realizes, is the empty space of it. Back home, he had figurines and other odds and ends cluttering his shelves, loose paper strewn over his desk, piles of clothes across the floor. Here? These shelves hold actual books, mostly. The desk has some sort of filing system going on, with _trays_ and everything.

And the floor? Yousuke suspects he could eat off the floor, if he wanted.

Like—he’s not going to, because that’d be _weird_. But he could. If he wanted to.

The point is, with all the empty space, and all the space that not empty squared away, the room looks bigger. Is bigger, effectively, since there’s more room to—well, to do whatever it is Yousuke’s supposed to do, in a room like this. And maybe that’s the secret to rich-people places. Rich people can afford to spend the time and money keeping their homes clean, and they end up with more room to work around than not-rich-people would.

Maybe mansions aren’t even big at all. Maybe they’re only the size of apartments, and they only _look_ big because they’re—no, wait, no, that’s dumb. Never mind.

He was probably onto something for a moment there, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> o hey sup


	12. Stagger Through

Naoto shows Yousuke around the mansion, and it’s a waking nightmare.

He leads him from room to room to room, telling him things to memorize or remember (he manages neither; the words slip from his mind like water through a cupped hand). He tries to keep track of the winding route they take but all the rooms and hallways look the same, except when they look all too different, and after only a minute he isn’t sure the path isn’t changing behind him, anyway.

There are other people here, stone-faced, silent, with purpose in their steps, and whenever they pass him they say nothing, don’t pause, even for an instant, but there’s this _look_ —

Naoto leads Yousuke back to his bedroom (they stand still, and the mansion shifts to bring the bedroom back to them). He says something—some sort of steady emotionless encouragement—but Yousuke doesn’t even hear it. As soon as he leaves again, shuts the door, he lets himself fall into the (his) bed and presses his head into the sheets and tries to _stop_.

Not forever. Just for a while. Until he wakes up again.

At least the mattress is comfy.


	13. A Bright Star, Reversed

He passes out there, still in his clothes, and when he wakes up the next morning all sweaty and gross and stiff, he feels better. That’s the worst part. He feels better.

Then he realizes he’s not home, and tries to remember why, and only remembers that, oh, right, he _can’t_ remember, mostly, and he stops feeling good again, real quick. He lies there and lies there and lies there, like maybe if he doesn’t get up and face reality he can pretend everything’s still perfectly normal, and he might lie there all day except that the door opens, and in comes Naoto. Naoto has a tray.

The tray has food.

“I thought I would bring you breakfast,” says Naoto, like he isn’t Yousuke’s boss bringing him breakfast in bed. It’s something that goes past surreal and into _what the hell_ and the only thing that keeps him from putting a pillow over his head and hiding until the guy leaves is the fact that Naoto—

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking (obviously it’s just wishful thinking), but Naoto looks like he feels just as comfortable with this situation as he does. He’s not _blushing_ or anything—the guy looks too marble to blush—but his eyes keep roving around, looking anywhere but him.

So of course, Yousuke makes things worse: “You’re bringing me this yourself?” he says, before he can _stop_. “Don’t you have someone who usually does this kind of thing for you?”

Something in Naoto’s face twitches, but only for a second. “I thought that you might want to see a familiar face instead of staff you don’t know,” he says. “That is—a more familiar face.”

What the hell, his boss is kind of hands-on.

But they live in the same place, so it kind of makes sense. Like if a family member gets sick—you bring them food and keep them hydrated and everything.

And it’s good, anyway—the food Naoto’s brought. No chopsticks, but there’s nothing to use chopsticks with. Bacon and toast, and a glass of juice. It fits the aesthetic. And, once he tries it out, tastes...like bacon, and toast, and (orange) juice. Guess even rich bastards have normal meals.

Naoto coughs in what Yousuke’s sure is a carefully-calculated-to-catch-your-attention cough, and Yousuke looks up with a face full of crisp.

“Regarding your position as my assistant...” begins Naoto.

The bacon goes sour in Yousuke’s mouth. Maybe this is the goodbye meal, then. One last apology before he cuts him loose. He can’t say he didn’t see this coming.

“...please don’t feel obligated to return to your duties before you feel you’ve recovered.”

Yeah, see, that…

No, hold on. That could go either way, actually. Maybe he needs to do some fishing, here. “You can’t plan on hosting me until I get better, though, right? It’d be a little weird, having your employee stay at your place so long.”

“Weird—no, it wouldn’t be ‘weird’ at all. After all—as I’ve told you before, you _live_ here—though I understand that your situation must still be difficult to process. I only wanted to tell you again that you _are_ free to find me and ask me any questions you may have.”

Which is nice, but: “Uh, is there a place I can find you, then? Because I definitely don’t have this place down yet.”

“You can ask any of the staff to guide you. They should be happy to help—you _are_ a fixture here, even if you don’t remember.”

Yousuke nods, while mentally swapping out “happy to help” with—something that actually makes sense. “technically cooperative,” or something. “And—it’s really alright for me to, uh, play hooky? From being your assistant?”

“I _did_ work alone for longer. I should be able to do so again for however long it takes for you to recover.”

 _Then do you even need an assistant at all?_ thinks Yousuke, but he’ll take the leeway Naoto’s set on giving him, for however long it lasts before it goes taut.


	14. The Slow Approach

And so Yousuke starts teaching himself the layout of the place.

Not just the mansion’s layout, though that’s important too (the number of times Yousuke’s thought he was heading toward the dining or living room only to come face-to-face with that freaky bull thing is getting close to double digits). More like—the layout of how he’s supposed to be living here. How things work, and what’s expected in a place like this, from him or anyone else.

It goes like this:

In the morning he wakes up at an hour that is way too early to be reasonable and _yet_ later than the time he’s supposed to get up (if he can take Naoto’s word for it). He stumbles downstairs in his pajamas (silk, what the _hell?_ ) and into the dining room, where Tawada—one of the maids (maids, what the _hell_ ) has breakfast waiting for him, something western and filling.

Sometimes Naoto joins him. Something he doesn’t.

They don’t talk, when he does. They almost do, but they don’t.

Time crawls. Naoto leaves to do Naoto stuff, whatever that is, and Yousuke’s left on his own for a while. He gets someone (Naoto, maybe, but usually Tawada or one of the other maids) to guide him to the library, or the garden, or anywhere else that might hopefully use up enough hours.

At midday, he and Naoto have lunch.

After lunch comes refamiliarization. Naoto shows Yousuke this or that—some room, some item, some aspect of his job—in the hopes of churning out some hidden-away memory. It doesn’t work once, at least not in the way Naoto or Yousuke hopes. Usually, he knows what he’s looking at (in an I’ve-been-taught-about-this-object-before-but-don’t-remember-where sort of way), and he can use nearly anything Naoto says he used to use (if he doesn’t think about what he’s doing with his hands), but actual, specific memories?

It’s no good, and every time it’s no good Naoto looks a little more quietly-disappointed-while-obviously-trying- _not-_ to-look-disappointed, and at first Yousuke could sympathize but now he thinks he starting to get sick of it.

He thinks he’s starting to get sick of lying around the mansion, too. Like the pampered aristocrat he isn’t.

He thinks...he thinks...

He thinks he might be about to do something stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mansions have maids, right? And a housekeep and everything. Would Naoto have a maid?
> 
> ...Maybe. I dunno. It felt a titch more likely than her having a...a male counterpart to a maid? What's that called? I had a chart and everything, drat it all...


	15. Happiness Off the Skin

Yousuke regrets telling Naoto that he’d like to have something to do, please, maybe so to ease him back into assistanthood or something. He regrets it so hard he’s already regretting it when he catches Naoto’s attention (desk, magnifying glass, handwritten-looking document folded into thirds) and hasn’t even _said_ it yet. And then he does say it, and he regrets it even more.

 _Except_ —

What Naoto does when he actually says that, is—nothing, for a second. Sits there twisted around in his chair and looks at him like maybe Yousuke hasn’t said anything at all yet, actually, and maybe he can still not-say it. And then he blinks, and he says: “Oh.”

And then says: “Er—”

And then springs up, out of his chair—springs _down_ , his ankle hooked on the chair leg, untwists himself, springs up again, and then seems to realize all of a sudden that he’s left his dignity behind him and slowly, carefully lowers himself into it once more, ahem-ing softly. “Yes,” he says. “Good. That’s—good. What would you like to do?”

Yousuke is not going to comment on what just happened, even in his own head. “I was hoping you could tell me that?” he says. “I don’t actually know what you need the most help with—like, what you’d think was the most important.”

“Right,” says Naoto. “Right!” He gets up again—not springing, this time, but it’s a careful, controlled thing that he _does_ do. He brushes the top of his vest, straightens his back, and suddenly he’s all prim and proper and dignified again, like he didn’t just spend the last fifteen seconds playing musical chairs solo. “Of course—there _are_ tasks you should be able to assist me with—some backlog of work—” He starts walking off, out of the room, without even asking Yousuke to follow, but he does, anyway. Where else would he go?

He’s still talking, too, half-muttering about _this_ and _that_ , but Yousuke’s barely paying attention. There’s something about the _way_ Naoto’s walking, the rushed tempo of his steps, like even if he’s doing his best to keep his spine straight he can’t cover up whatever it is he’s got humming beneath his skin. Some sort of barely pent up energy. Excitement, maybe.

Did he want Yousuke to start helping out _that_ much? How polite has Naoto been being, letting him laze around the mansion when he apparently wanted Yousuke at a desk or wherever it is he thinks Yousuke should be?

Or then again, maybe he’s just imagining it. He imagines a lot of stuff. In which case—Naoto is probably _still_ more excited over putting him to work than he is, so whatever.


	16. Shuffle Shuffle

Yousuke’s first foray into official working-for-Naoto-ness is in the way of organizing documents, which _sounds_ like a no-sweat sort of task until he actually gets started and finds out that whoever set up the sorting system that Naoto uses was apparently _completely insane_.

Take letters, for example. Letters that serve as evidence for one of Naoto’s cases go in the middle folder in the bottom-right drawer, unless they’re for a _current_ case, in which case they go in the top left letter tray. Letters that _don’t_ serve as evidence get separated according to topic, with fanmail going in the middle-right drawer, requests going in the bottom right tray, and bills going in the upper right tray. Except no, about those requests, because if the request “seems of note” ( _how is he supposed to know whether a request seems of note_ ) it goes in the middle middle tray, unless the reason it’s “of note” is because there’s something “suspicious” about it, in which case it it goes in the _bottom_ middle tray. Regular correspondence ( _what is “regular correspondence”?!_ ) is placed in the top right portion of the desk, untrayed, unless the regular correspondence is _also_ suspicious, in which case they’re on the top _left_ portion of the desk and turned sideways. Junk mail is also on the top left, but left unturned.

It takes a sleepless night of Yousuke trying to figure out how to file a letter of personal correspondence which is _also_ full of praise and _also_ includes information about one of Naoto’s current cases but _also_ _also_ turns into a request to hire Naoto halfway through and _also also also_ comes with a bill attached for him to finally crack. “ _Who invented your sorting system,_ ” he greets Naoto, the next morning. Doesn’t even bother with “hello” or anything.

Naoto gives him the _strangest_ look. “You did,” he says.

Of course he did.

 


	17. French Kiss Sealed

He catches the smell before he even figures out which letter it’s coming from. Then, once he’s appropriately gloved up, he breaks the seal, and it goes from “smell” to “ _reek_.”

For a second he’s sure this is how he dies (though it being fumes instead of white powder is a twist)—but then his brain recognizes: _Oh—perfume_ , and he’s just sort of annoyed. And nauseous. Mostly nauseous. He nearly puts it sideways at the corner of the desk—and then lifts it away again, quick, before the smell can get into all the other letters that are already there. Or worse, seep into the desk itself.

Yeah, maybe he’d better get Naoto’s say on this one now. It’s not like Yousuke’s got a whole lot else on his plate.

Naoto’s working on his own letters when Yousuke finds him—with a fountain pen and everything, because Naoto is _dedicated_ to the whole _thing_ he does here. He wafts the letter Naoto’s way until the smell’s made it far enough for Naoto to jerk his head and turn.

“Sorry to interrupt you,” says Yousuke.

“Ah—no—it’s no problem at all. I was simply—er...” Naoto gestures limply at the stacks of paper and the actual bottle of ink in front of him, like he doesn’t want to spell out that he’s letterwriting when it’s already perfectly obvious.

“Uh, yeah,” Yousuke says in response (Naoto’s awkwardness is contagious). “Do you mind looking at this letter right now? I’m wondering if maybe I should just throw it away.”

Naoto takes the letter carefully by the edges and peers through it. Yousuke’s already read it himself, part of it at his desk and part of it on the way here. It’s a thank-you letter—a _very_ thank-you letter—from a woman whose name Yousuke doesn’t recognize but who apparently Naoto helped out on a recent case. And did Yousuke mention the thanks? Because the woman, whoever she is, is _very, very_ thankful, basically taking half the space on the page just to list Naoto’s (perceived) positive qualities. Yousuke can’t tell if it’s actually sincere or just a bunch of buttering-up like characters do in those period dramas he _totally never watched_ before he came to Inaba, but it all ends with the sender asking Naoto if perhaps she could treat him to a dinner for two at this restaurant that’s either very French, very expensive, or both? Just as thanks, of course.

“I see,” says Naoto, slowly, once he’s read it all himself. “Teresa Shinomiya—you met her on a recent case, three months ago. Does that sound familiar?”

It doesn’t.

Naoto frowns, but continues. “She’s notable in philanthropists’ circles—funds charities, and such. She’s a genuinely kind individual, though one prone to fits of excitement. A distant cousin of hers was framed for murder three months ago, and she hired us to clear his name.”

That first part _does_ sound familiar, though it might just be because “Teresa Shinomiya” sounds like the name of someone with money. For some reason. “Three months? That’s kind of a long time for a thank you letter.”

“A short time, actually, from what I’ve heard of Papillon de la Mer’s waiting list.” He sighs, and folds the letter back up. “Thank you. I’ll have to apologize for turning her down.”

“You’re turning her down?” The words come out of Yousuke’s mouth before he even realizes he’s thinking them, and then Naoto’s looking at him with—no, not with anything. Just looking at him, which is embarrassing enough. “I mean,” he says, “maybe it’s a rich-people thing, but it sounds like from the letter she’s really into you, you know?”

This time, when Naoto frowns, it’s a touch different. There’s a tension at the corners of his face, something with the jaw held tight. “She _did_ seem somewhat—ah, infatuated, yes. Even I couldn’t miss it. But...”

“But?”

“She doesn’t know me, not truly. I believe she’s attracted more to the _idea_ of me that she built over the course of our meetings—that, combined with the thankfulness she might feel, as we _did_ help her cousin. I can’t see myself doing anything but falling short of that ideal.”

 _Well, that’s why you’re_ supposed _to go on dates, right?_ Yousuke thinks. _To see someone for real and see if you like them._ But he feels like he’s prodded too far for an assistant, so he makes his excuses and leaves and doesn’t watch Naoto put the letter with the rest of the waste.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help but feel that the way I've written this gives an unfair shake to Teresa Shinomiya, the completely original character who I alone made up and thus was free to portray however I wished in this entry.
> 
> ...Mmf.


	18. Alone Boy

It bothers him more than it should—that short conversation with Naoto. He can’t figure out why. What’s his business if Naoto’s dating or not? What, is he one of those overbearing parents, trying to hook him up with the first available girl or whatever?

(His own parents call regularly. Well-meaning checkups. He appreciates it, but also he doesn’t, and his words always only come out clipped and empty in a way he can’t stand until the other end reluctantly goodbyes and hangs up.)

Like, it’s not like he thinks everyone’s got to be married off or attached to a boy/girl/whatever-friend in order to be happy or anything like that (though it’d probably be a bonus). It’s just—

He’s watched movies with rich dudes, and movies with rich dudes in broken marriages, and he knows the scene: Husband and wife eating a fancy dinner at home, sitting at the farthest opposite sides of the dining room table. In his head, it’s Naoto sitting, at one end. And then there are a million opposite ends, and they’re everything and everyone else.

It’s a crazy image. A stupid image, since he doesn’t even know how Naoto’s life is. Sure, in the instances he’s seen Naoto the man’s always been—alone. Standoffish? Just sort of _apart_. But Naoto heads out sometimes, too, and Yousuke hasn’t yet followed him.

Maybe Naoto’s only awkward and alone at home. Maybe Naoto’s actually got a bustling social life and Yousuke’s missed it all because he’s only got this narrow window to look at him through.

A case comes in, one interesting enough to catch Naoto’s attention. Yousuke volunteers to go with.


	19. Chunk of Care

“There is an additional aspect to your position as assistant that I might have failed to mention.”

Naoto says this without looking at him. It’s only reasonable that he’d do that, though, seeing as Naoto’s the one with his eyes on road. There was a _moment_ , in the garage, where Yousuke’s feet started to take him toward the driver’s side of the car—

And then he realized what he was doing and stopped, and Naoto overtook him, easy. Got in, shut the door, and turned the ignition. And it was easier to let it happen, even if his fingers itched.

Sure.

“Sure,” Yousuke says. “What else do you need from me?”

“Well, I hopefully won’t need it at all.” Naoto’s mouth flexes at the corner, something wry, then flattens itself out again as he seems to remember—oh, right, if there’s a joke here, Yousuke’s not going to get it. “In the past you’ve served as—protection, I suppose you could say. I have my own means of protection, of course—”

Yousuke’s seen the gun.

“—but there have been cases in which you’ve been the one to disable an attacker, or run down a fleeing suspect, especially when my attention has been taken by other matters.”

Yousuke tries to square up what he knows of himself with the concept of “hired goon” and doesn’t manage it. “So I’m supposed to...protect you,” he sums up. “Watch your back.”

“Yes.”

“And I was...I mean, you could rely on me for this? Was I any good?”

“Even if you don’t remember, I can assure you that you were. There were times I had nobody else to count on.”

“And you were _okay_ with this?”

Naoto frowns, and Yousuke realizes that that last bit came out of him sharper than he meant it to. Less concerned question, more _incredulous_ _screech_.

“You were somewhat apprehensive when you started, too,” Naoto says. “Nevertheless, you never failed to perform admirably. And now you have the experience of it—even if, again, you don’t remember.”

His tone shifts, becoming even more serious.

“I have the fullest faith in you.”

“I feel like you’re going to be disappointed,” Yousuke says, and then, before he can stop himself, thinks: _Or dead._


	20. Ring Ring Doorbell Ring

A country house is the kind of building that just _shouts_ “rich dudes here,” miles before you get close enough to park. It’s not as grand as Naoto’s place (that one’s more “roar” than “shout”), but it’s still so big that Junes-Yousuke can’t help but feel a class-based acrimony.

Like: _Rich bastards._

Naoto of course, is a rich bastard himself, so he puts the car into place smoothly enough, and the two of them approach the oversized front doors in what’s almost a huddle.

“It’s not too late, right?” whispers Yousuke. He doesn’t know why he’s whispering. “I can still wait in the car.”

Naoto isn’t _irked_ , exactly, but his mouth goes into a thin line. “I have the utmost faith in you,” he says. It’s not the first time he’s said it since the two of them left base—that and variations, and Yousuke suspects the repetition’s starting to rankle them both.

And then Naoto sighs. “If it makes you feel any more at ease,” he says, “the times when you’ve needed to move into action _have_ been relatively few. Most of the time, you simply...stand close by, reserved.”

Stand, huh? “I can do standing,” Yousuke mutters. “I work at a department store.”

“Yes, I know,” says Naoto, and rings the bell.

It takes a minute, long enough for Yousuke to consider saying, “Whelp, nobody’s home; let’s just leave,” but then the door _does_ open, and there’s a man in a pristinely formal suit, a pencil-thin moustache, and a gaze that somehow _spouts_ condescension despite remaining completely blank.

It’s the butler, in other words. Or someone buttling, anyway.

So yeah. Too late now.


End file.
